Little Fit
by SplatDragon
Summary: It's easy to forget how much a little scratch can hurt when you're a kid. Arthur would've had more sympathy for John, if he wasn't acting like such a little shit.


**Whumptober 2019, #11: "Stitches"**

"John, get down from there!"

Arthur still didn't know what Hosea and Dutch had been thinking when they took in the boy. Best he could tell, they hadn't been.

Because little Johnny Marston was insufferable, and Arthur Morgan was no big brother.

John smirked down at him, sticking out his tongue, clambering up one more tree branch higher.

If it were up to Arthur, he would have pulled out his lasso and just pulled the boy down. But Dutch and Hosea would _kill_ him if he even came close to hurting their little golden boy and, besides, they'd confiscated his lasso. Probably for this very reason, in retrospect.

"John, get down here, so help me god."

It was taking all he had not to jump up after him, haul him down out of the tree and throw him onto the back of his horse. But that, too, would probably count as 'hurting the kid', which he had been expressly forbidden from doing.

"So help me god, _what?"_ John grinned then, seeing Arthur's stormy expression, scurried higher up into the tree.

Fuck it.

John's eyes widened, and he squeaked "W-wait," as Arthur unbuckled his gun belt, setting it on the ground and approaching the tree. The kid began to make his way higher up the tree, trying to escape Arthur as the man began to clamber up after him. Branches cracked under his hands, but he kept going, lunging for another branch as Arthur lurched up, grabbing for his ankle.

The branches shattered, and he fell. Arthur cursed, and lunged to catch him, but wasn't quite fast enough, the boy squealing as he rocketed passed him, hitting the ground with a _thud_.

Thankfully, they weren't too far off the ground, so the fall only knocked the wind out of him, thank god, didn't break his ribs, his legs or his arms. Arthur kicked away from the tree, landing next to him, kneeling beside him, "Okay Johnny?"

John whined, wheezing as he fought to catch his breath, curling in on himself and clutching his arm. Arthur frowned, reached for his arm, but the boy jerked back. He didn't suffer any brats, though, and grabbed his scrawny arm ("Hey!") and peeled his hand away, biting his lip at the sight of the wound.

It's not terrible, not crippling or even likely to lake long to heal. But it definitely has to hurt, is ragged and uneven and he's sure it needs stitches. There's a little sniffle, and he looks up, raising an eyebrow when he sees John reaching up to wipe away his tears. "Aww, Johnny, it's just a wittle scwatch, don't cry," he smirks, waiting to see John's reaction.

John screws up his face, scowls and barks, "I ain't cryin'!" and he knows the kid's alright, else he wouldn't be sniping back. "Leggo of me." he scowled, tugging and trying to free his arm from Arthur's grip, but Arthur tightens has hand and doesn't let him.

"Calm down, Marston. Ya need stitches." he huffs, reaching for his satchel he had dropped next to his gun belt.

The boy's eyes widened, and he dug in his heels, attempting to squirm his way free, "St-stiches? No, no, no I don't! See? It's fine!" he wriggled his arm in Arthur's grip, his grimace less-than-convincing.

"Sure," Arthur grumbled and, when John tried to thrash free again, he grabbed him around his chest and tugged on him, yanking him into his stomach. The kid yowled, kicked and yelled and fought like a wild-cat to free himself, but Arthur wrapped one arm around him, still holding his arm, to pin him to his chest, crossing his legs around his hips. "Yeah yeah, keep it up and I'll throw ya in with yer kin. 'm sure yer mama cougar'll be glad ta see ya."

The boy huffed, and slumped in his grip, sulking.

Knowing better than to loosen his grip, Arthur rifled through his satchel with his free hand, grunting when he finally found a bottle of alcohol. He'd been looking forward to drinking it, but they had more back in camp, so he brought it to his mouth and pulled the cap off, spitting it out on the ground.

"Wait, wait, Arthur what are you going do to with that, Arthur wait wait wait WAIT!" Arthur flinched at John's high pitched scream right next to his ear as he poured alcohol over the wound, trying to clean it out.

"It ain't that bad," he grumbled, waiting until the alcohol ran clear, and then some, before throwing the bottle aside, watching mournfully as what remained dripped out into the grass.

John huffed, scuffing his heels as best he could with how much he was pinned, "Asshole, could'a warned me,"

"Language," Arthur said out of habit, knowing Hosea wouldn't be happy with John using that language at such a young age, rummaging through his satchel until he came out with his handkerchief, setting it on his pant leg, then his little tin full of needles and thread.

The kid's eyes widened, and he began to struggle again, wheezing as Arthur tightened his grip around his stomach. "Really, Arthur, this ain't necessary, just bandage it an' it'll be fine, really."

Arthur hummed, not bothering to answer, knowing that nothing he could say would get John to stop fighting, and wrapped himself around John as tightly as he could, holding himself still as he used his teeth to thread the needle, awkwardly maneuvering it down to his hand and carefully piercing his skin, vaguely apologetic, knowing how bad stitches could hurt. "Arthur, seriously," John continued to whine as the man stitched his wound—Arthur was no seamstress, but he was more than capable of stitching wounds, even if they weren't the cleanest or neatest in the end.

Finally, he reached the end of the wound, and tied off the thread, breaking it off. The needle and thread was thrown into his satchel—he'd dump it out later, didn't want to risk pricking himself, and he needed to organize it besides—and he grabbed the bandages that had fallen out, wrapping them quickly around his arm, tying the end and tearing it before releasing John abruptly, shoving himself back as John leaped up and away, cradling his arm and scowling at him like a kicked cur.

Arthur rolled his eyes, stooping down to put the bandages in his satchel, throwing it on over his shoulder and putting his gun belt back on, "Aw, stop sulking, it weren't that bad."

John scowled, reaching up to rub at his eyes with his bandaged arm, and huffed "Fuck you!" before storming off to his mule, scrambling into her saddle.

"Language!"


End file.
